


In Conclusion, Inconclusion

by EpiphanyBlue



Series: Seeing It As I Do [3]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Head vs Heart, Introspection, M/M, POV Carlos, Requited Love, Scientist Carlos (Welcome to Night Vale)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 09:03:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EpiphanyBlue/pseuds/EpiphanyBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've made up my mind. You know how significant that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Conclusion, Inconclusion

I have been told that I experience things on an intellectual level. That my power of understanding only functions in concrete, rational terms. That I need to know in order to feel. I have heard it in… colder terms than that, but I do not care to write them. For the most part I have thought it true.

I am he that wants to know the composition of buildings and sculptures (and ink paints), the ages of landmarks, the heights of trees; who desires a historical context for each monument, the origin of each holiday, the range and population status of every animal. Had I some rare or potentially fatal illness, I would study it so long as my eyes could focus and my hands respond as I desired.

I am not unemotional. Merely thus: While others watch and wonder and feel and are satisfied, I watch, wonder, measure, explore, analyze and assess, and remain hungry. My satisfaction lies in intrigue, but taking intrigue for nothing more than itself is futility. I know how it is to think yourself into circles more like spirals, from a whirlpool, lacking comprehension, gaining frustration, in pursuit of a truth you are simply unequipped to discover. This is futility. I evade this feeling as best I can. I gather equipment. Those strong feelings I cannot rationalize, I deny.

For what I cannot comprehend, how much can I truly care?

I came here for the intrigue, and I found it. I found it, first too dangerous, and then too great. My determination spiked, my effort, my anxiety, all. The first few weeks I was hardly myself. My intense explorations had gone from inspiring, satisfying, to horrifying, constricting, overwhelming. Hiding in an alcove (don't ask) one morning I came to. The danger wasn't all coming from outside myself anymore. I realized I had to let go of something, perhaps many things, or risk grinding myself to dust, sand-stirred and desert-baked, laden with flecks of brain and specks of bone.

I gave in (somewhat). I found my talent for (occasionally) forsaking my grain of salt, for listening and (conditionally) accepting, for following (not quite) blind. I restricted my focus and my work to- perhaps- three subjects a week. My head started to clear, and all that could do so returned to normal. Only, I found that one of my problem thoughts, was rejecting my attempts to expel it or even shut it away. Since it would not go away, I tried to unravel it, and the whirlpools sprang up around me. Of all my plans and concepts this was most liable to lead me to destruction or distraction, humiliation, or worse- disappointment. Yet I could no more refute it through than justify it, so I settled for ignoring it, letting it beat in the back of my mind. Having (as I saw it) regained my sanity, I wasn’t going to risk it so blatantly.

Then I found out it doesn't always matter how careful, how deliberate, how rational you are. Some things just come from nowhere, others from places completely unexpected, and you won't be protected or prepared. Because you can't be.

You can protect yourself from exposure to most dangerous elements with chambers, thick windows and walls, masks and suits, pliers and gloves. But to try and protect yourself from the element of surprise- that is madness. That is the second ultimate futility, just after trying to evade death. I, as a human being, can succeed at neither. The day I came to terms with that was the day I let my naïve and dangerous thought have its wish- a wish that I had long suspected but never been willing to admit was very much my own going outside in a full haz-mat suit just isn't worth it. It separates you from sunlight, fresh air, those few precious raindrops, and other people. And trying to protect yourself from the element of surprise is honest madness. It is the second ultimate futility, after trying to prevent your own death. I, as a human being, am capable of neither.

The day I came to terms with that, I knew that my perspective had been woefully incomplete. So I acquiesced. I listened to my mad, persistent thought and gave it its way.

I opened the door of my life just a fraction, and you walked in.

It made no sense. Had I been the same man that evening that I had been that morning, had there not been for me a paradigm shift the length of the Rocky Mountains seven times over, I might have found it terrifying. You arrived, and for a brief moment, it was. Yet then I knew why I had done it. And to this day I can’t regret it, I won’t regret it, because something about you has changed and challenged everything about me.

Or maybe you’re just the exception.

There is so much I don’t understand about you. You and your body, at-least-essentially human, yet so unique and so lovely. Your heart, at times seeming imperturbable or inhumanly temperate, yet capable of the deepest sensation, the sincerest passions and the greatest warmth. Your head full of nightmares and visions and dreams, offbeat wisdom and fervent misconceptions, impossible logic and light and random memories and those terrible dark regions where you know something of yours ought to be, but it’s lost or inaccessible. Those shadows are the only parts of you that truly anger me, because they have made you feel false and fragmentary when you are neither. You are more than complete, my dearest, and you are so terribly, wonderfully real.

No, I haven’t run all the usual tests, let alone all possible ones. I couldn’t, no matter if I wanted to. Yes, I am fascinated by you, I would even say intrigued. I would like to learn all I can about you, but I have never seen you as a subject for study, at least not in any traditional sense. Keeping you isolated in a sterile environment, examining functions, testing reactions of skin and eyes and autonomic nerves, changing the room temperature, the air pressure and quality, taking far too many photographs, readings, samples, notes, replacing that cherished name with a numeric code, bloodless and generic— I can describe this, because this is the stuff of my nightmares. To use you so would be utterly inhuman, not to mention thoroughly ludicrous. You are my favorite subject and my most difficult, but, first and foremost, you are not a subject at all. You are a unique and striking individual: eloquent, canny, reckless, devoted, stubborn, genuine. You are, in fact, the world’s only occurring Cecil Gershwin Palmer. No other such sightings have been recorded or known.

Cecil. My Cecil. You are irreplaceable, and you are my own.

To be honest, it scares me sometimes. There is nothing and no one like you in the whole world, and you have entrusted yourself to me. And Night Vale isn't the best place to be protective of someone. But you and the town are- perhaps inextricably- linked, so what is there to do? You bring joy and comfort to my life and an iridescence that I hope to never again be without. The fact that I don’t always (or even usually) get you, that I have to trust you when it seems completely insane, actually draws me in closer. And you have never once failed me. Your erraticism keeps me on my toes, but at the end of the day, so long as your own troubles aren’t bearing you down, I can depend on you for sincerity, loyalty and affection. And if they are, then it is my turn to try and be what is best for you. My objective is to take care of you, to forgive your faults, accept your eccentricities, to give you strength and support and what guidance you will actually accept. It is not to analyze, nor is it even to comprehend, but to love you wholly and unequivocally, just as you deserve. 

For what I cannot comprehend, how much can I truly care?

The answer is profound and, naturally, inexpressible.

I thought about the occasion on which I might give you this, if it’s even really worth giving. (It’s my writing, just random thoughts, and I’m not a writer—but I am a thinker, so maybe there’s something in this.) I decided not to wait for a particular occasion. And then I realized it’s been six months exactly since I called you out to that parking lot. (I think we’re the first couple I’ve ever heard of to have an Arby’s Parking Lot anniversary.)

So, a few things I wanted to say to you.

We have our quarrels. We always will. It has been pointed out to me that I am no genius with social cues, and at certain points I know you have found my romantic concerns and sensibilities lacking. I know you know, though, that I could never mean you harm, and should I cause you any, I will desire forgiveness on your own terms. (Though do go easy on the sacrifices. I still have flashbacks to the day spent chasing that rather feisty anti-mountain goat.)

I am ultimately very thankful for your legendary persistence. Even when you are not optimistic, you always seem so sure that there is something wonderful at the heart of me, something worth holding on to with all your strength and tenacity.

It's completely mutual.

Happy Parking Lot Anniversary, Cecil,  
my paradoxical, unpredictable,  
perfect and beautiful boyfriend.  
I love you so very, very much.

P.S.  
I used to wonder about how I was going to make a name for myself. I thought through all sorts of potential projects and discoveries, trying to imagine the kind of scientific endeavor that could one day define my life and make my name known. Then I came to Night Vale, and sure enough, I have acquired a name. I am now known as “Cecil’s Scientist.”

It’s sounding better every day.

**Author's Note:**

> "One Year Later" premiered live at the WTNV anniversary party in New York City on June 11th, 2012. It really has been six months exactly. (Also, I didn't feel like waiting.)  
> The size discrepancy between this and the other two works in the series is why this is a series and no longer a unified chapter fic.


End file.
